Pokin’ The Bear
I admit, I’m not the perfect wife. I try. I really do. I’ve been cooking more lately, screeching (or is that sniping? I’m totally being sarcastic because neither is all that true) less, I’ve even attempted to be *gasp* rational. No really, I have. It’s not fun, it’s a lot more like being a man than most of us women ever really want to be. Nope, give me good, old-fashioned, raw emotions any day, those I can totally handle.
Things have been pretty stressful around here and just as we find out that the light at the end of the tunnel most likely isn’t a train, we find out that the tunnel is another 5 or 10 miles long. It’s not surprising that the stress is beginning to take a toll on all of us, but lately Mike is looking a little raggedy around the edges.
I have extreme powers of observation. I can tell the difference between a “no coffee yet” grumble and a “don’t poke the bear” grumble. I’m just that good. Being the kind, loving mother that I am instead of throwing the cubs to the grumbly bear and escaping with my ass intact, I instead chose to warn my offspring that their father is just a bit edgy.
“Your father is starting to worry me a little.” I said to our oldest after the girls had escaped to Nana’s for a nice swim. “I think the stress is finally getting to him and… well, I think he’s losing it a bit. So, no jokes, don’t get in his face, and for God’s sake, don’t poke the bear. Ok?”
My eldest nodded with a knowing glance that told me he had already ventured near the bear with a long pointy stick and decided even if said stick was 10 feet long and he had a really good head start, there was a really good shot that the bear would still leap on to his back and rip his little pointy head off and howl.
I gave my son this wise advice as Mike was outside poking around in the yard, not unlike a hungry bear. I started cooking dinner warily watching my husband (now inside) nosing around the kitchen, not unlike how a hungry bear might sniff around a dumpster. I finished my salad and stuck it in the fridge to chill.
The bear was making egg rolls with Ethan’s pizza cooker. I asked if he was hungry and he grumbled. I backed away and went back to sneaking bites of the salad out of the fridge while waiting for meat (that Ethan forgot to thaw earlier) to finish thawing.
I glanced over and noticed that the bear was smacking his lips and emitting a low growl.
“Hey, watcha doin?” I said in a throaty sort of sweet/sexy voice.
“Eating an egg roll.” Came the growly reply.
“Huh. That is amazing. I never would have thought you could eat with that giant stick up your ass.”
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